The Prove – constitutional change on a street called home

I’ve been reflecting on the particular spatial and temporal qualities of ‘in between’ times – the best of times and the worst of times. Anxiety and excitement are two sides of the same coin after all.

The dystopian reality of current global politics- Brexit, Trump, Europe’s utterly inept response to the biggest mass migration of people since the second world war, the era of fake news- combined with the over-stimulation, self-saturation and cult of instant gratification stoked by social media, has rendered us scrolling junkies jittery for a deeper connection fix. It can be comforting then, detoxifying even, to look up from small screens and grasp big, everyday acts of kindness where we can still find them. The hyper-local world view- the view of the neighbourhood, the street, or tenement stair- brings into focus that empathy and love are not finite resources that can be mined by short-term greed and narcissism. Active participation and face by face interaction is where we find meaning to the world around us and define the contribution we chose to make. This is the daily practice of think global, act local.


My street is Constitution Street in Leith, Edinburgh. It is an 1800 thoroughfare stretching east to west, parenthesis explaining city and sea, bookending the port of Leith and the nation’s capital. A street where statues to the unlikely bedfellows of Rabbie Burns (Bernard Street junction) and Queen Victoria (Duke Street junction) are in awkward conversation and where maritime docks meet new creative industries. It is a place of faded grandeur, hidden vaults, perpetual gossip, light and dark, and general under-recognition by town planners. Comprising a medieval graveyard, Georgian townhouses, Victorian tenements, ’70s highrise and the Tram-track scars of post-recession Britain, this is everyone’s land and yet, still, a liminal land of constant dualities and curious misfits persevering side by side.

Const St entrance

looking east towards the sea

I have lived and worked on Constitution Street for the past decade. The last ten years have been a time of sustained political unrest in the UK, charting the Scottish Independence Referendum of 2014 and the European Referendum of 2016, alongside deepening economic and health inequalities. The average life expectancy of a woman in the Leith Walk electoral ward is 74, compared to 89 in more affluent Barnton, west Edinburgh, less than five miles away.

A commons and a parcel o’ rogues

Anxiety contains interesting information because it tells us something of who we are. A therapeutic response to feeling unsettled might be to remember where and who we are right now because the thing scaring us probably isn’t in the present moment but in fact a past scare evoked by something in the present. I learnt this analysis from my neighbour Claire, a therapist.

With the announcement of a further Scottish Independence Referendum now imminent and a voting date likely to be in autumn 2018, we are living in a heightened in-between, anxious/ exciting, time of constitutional flux.  A binary choice of Yes or No to ‘should Scotland be an independent country?’ doesn’t allow for de facto in-betweens of ‘Yes, hopefully’, ‘No, apologetically’ or ‘I don’t know’.  The intra-referenda period 2014- 2018 is the space for a more fluid, ambiguous settling and unsettling of our constitutional viewpoints.

“In anthropology, liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning “a threshold”[1]) is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete. During a ritual’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold”[2] between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.” [Wikipedia].

See also Mike Small, TEDx Portobello on Liminal Land: 

I value the diversity of my neighbourhood friendships. I am invited by Tony (72, Scots-Nigerian- Leither) to adjacent Cadiz Street for a lunchtime bowl of soup and gossip, and across the road to no.59 to play dress-up with Maddie (12, Scots- English- Leither). Both have lived here longer than me and have taught me much. I am curious about Tony and Maddie’s futures on Constitution Street and their individual priorities for constitutionalism in a new Scotland.

With an ageing population and changing family structures and relationship choices, more of us than ever before live alone. Loneliness can be a particular side-effect of liminality- a perception of being lost and not yet found anew, of being temporarily in-between company. In her acclaimed ‘Field Guide to Getting Lost’, Rebecca Solnit notes that the word ‘lost’ comes from the Old Norse los meaning the disbanding of an army; soldiers falling out of a formation to go home, a truce with the wider world.

For the German-born Jewish American political theorist, Hannah Arendt, belonging to a community and being visible in civic space was vital to promoting and protecting the rights of others. She believed that in 1930s Europe citizens were primed for the appeal of totalitarian leaders because they were isolated from any community — political or otherwise:

“What prepares men for totalitarian domination in the non-totalitarian world is the fact that loneliness, once a borderline experience usually suffered in certain marginal conditions like old age, has become an everyday experience of the ever-growing masses of our century.”

Here and now in Scotland, I am curious about whether the social-dynamics of involuntary, domestic intimacy in tenement housing may help buffer against feelings of loneliness. The residents of some eight or nine flats stacked up and down and side by side share a common stair, roof and front door. Living in isolation and suffering from a fear of the unknown is somehow less likely  when there are everyday, collective issues to resolve like a leaking roof, or the common landing between flats in which to negotiate eye contact and say good morning to our neighbours. And then there is the hyper-local politics of a cleaning rota.

Side by side conversations allow for active citizenship and the imagination of the possible to blossom. And, I think, that the nearness of tenement architecture to city centres in Scotland is in contrast to the comparable absence of affordable housing in English cities but I will need to find out more.

I often fantasise about moving out of the city to a rural idyll with more living space and a garden, but on return from weekend escapes, I am reminded of the reciprocal benefits attached to living within urban community. Looking out of my tenement windows to the street scene below, I know the names of the people passing by. I know where they live or work. If I wanted to, I could tap on the window glass and be confident that my neighbours- my Constitution Street-ers- would look up and wave back. Maddie would stick her tongue out. This is immensely reassuring in an age of anxiety and perceived urban anonymity.

The UK is the only country in Europe or the Commonwealth without a written constitution. As an undergraduate law student at the University of Edinburgh, I was taught that instead of a single document, the separation of executive, judicial and legislative powers in the UK is governed by constitutional convention. With the maturing of Scottish devolution, we have quasi-constitutional statutes in the form of The Scotland Act 1998 and the Human Rights Act 1998– legislation which set out the competency within which public bodies, including local and devolved government, are permitted to act. However, both these pieces of legislation are subject to the parliamentary supremacy of Westminster. In these uncertain, shifting and shifty, times of Tory majority rule from London and lacklustre Labour party opposition, the Scottish devolution settlement and the Human Rights Act are both vulnerable to repeal. Beware the Rabbie Burns lament:

“Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!”

Human rights begin in small places, close to home

Written in the nation-building era of the post war period, the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human rights 1948 famously states:

“Where, after all, do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home – so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person; the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm, or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere. Without concerted citizen action to uphold them close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.” (Eleanor Roosevelt)

At a journalist friend’s house party in a tenement flat on Leith Walk last year, I was naturally drawn to the spare bedroom where the window was flung open (such is my obsession for seeking out fresh air) and, somewhat ironically, then joined a huddled congregation of shivering, committed smokers. We discussed the bruising experience of 2014 Indyref campaigning and consoling, and made predictions on the various ‘what if’ scenarios that may influence the First Minister’s gamble on whether or not to call a further indyref. I asked Shetlander Jordan Ogg (editor of The Island Review) what he thought we might come to call this in between, intra-referenda, age of anxiety period. He proposed that the kneading together of arguments, the heated desire for change and the need to wait until the Yes vote has risen sufficiently could be described as akin to bread proving.

In the 2014 White Paper on Scotland’s Future, the SNP government confirmed that an independent Scotland would have a written constitution incorporating international economic, social and cultural rights and that such a constitution would be shaped by an inclusive, participatory approach involving civic society. There are examples from elsewhere, such as Iceland, where more radical citizens’ juries or mini-publics have been tasked with determining those principles and rights so fundamental as to be recorded constitutional importance.

Back on Constitution Street, as an icy, northeast haar stumbles in across the Firth of Forth, we hold our collective breath in anticipation of what successive Caledonian springs might bring and whether we, the citizens, will rise or fall to the challenge. I want to ask my neighbours to crowdsource a constitution for the place and times in which we live.

What does the right to food mean to the Turkish cafe owners, the young mums digging in the community garden and the office workers queuing for a fish supper from Perinos on a Friday night? What does the right to private and family life look like for families of same sex couples, single parents, great grandparents, and student house-shares? What might the right to culture involve for the mix of licensing, festivals and voluntary arts groups? And how has the smoking ban, alcoholism and drug addiction shaped our attitudes to the right to health? These questions and others will help frame doorstep, side by side conversations in the coming year on Constitution Street.

Const St exit

looking west towards the city

I am mindful of a duty of care not to patronise, fictionalise, or misrepresent my neighbours. The rich social and industrial history of Leith is increasingly well documented. We have our own cultural exports too. Trainspotting most celebrated. I want to take my cues more from Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’ than McCall Smith’s ‘No. 44 Scotland Street’. I hope to avoid asserting any overtly Yes or No to Scots Indy leanings and instead to take up residence on the threshold of in-between spaces. So far, conversations have taken place over hedges at the allotments, over pints at Leith Festival AGM, in the City Archives maps department and in the law library. I’m loving it.

The small places, closest to home include Leith Links, the Dockers Club, the Port O’Leith bar, Printworks coffee shop, the no.16  bus stop, St Mary’s playground, the quayside, and perhaps even Stories Home Bakery further up Leith Walk where macaroni pies and fudge donuts fuel all night revellers and early-morning grafters and where I am hopeful loaves of bread are still proven and baked fresh.

And so, like this, my recent late-winter days have been a time of hunkering down and of testing and fermenting the bubbles of a new writing project. It will be part-participatory ethnography, part-political theory, part-storytelling. And like all love letters, the words will likely flow easier with the benefit of some distance.

Short poems or essays may continue to appear on this personal blog from time to time but I shall be focussing on field notes for Constitution Streeters in the main. All feedback, introductions, reading suggestions, and gentle critique is, as always, welcome.

Let it breathe,

Grow and ferment

Under a damp, warm cloth

Ready to rise or fall

Then we must weigh it in our hands

For this, our daily bread is


See also:


Roamin’ in the gloamin’ with a Bonnie by my side

On Constitution Street

Tae Leith


“I’m Scottish, No I’M Scottish”

It’s about democracy

This was the week that the three horsemen of the UK apocalypse rode north in tartan cagoules to hold hope to ransom. The fourth horseman, the former Prime Minister, prepared the ground the day before with his assurances of more (yet to be specified) powers.

The partisan pantomime of ‘He’s Behind You’ in the Polls would be a comic farce if it wasn’t such a shameful affront to the positive, civic engagement that has taken root in Scotland during the Independence Campaign thus far. The people of Scotland haven’t been meek observers of political grandstanding; we have been active agents of self-expression and self-determination. It’s been joyous and challenging and inspiring. We’ve seen a flattening of power and influence in our celebrity obsessed modern world. An undergraduate friend casually remarked to me that Noam Chomsky had emailed him asking for a recommended reading list to the IndyRef.

So it was with some irony that the pro-Union side of the campaign were the ones to hoist Saltires and declare outpourings of unrequited love this week. Hitherto, the campaign had been blissfully absent of Balmoral sentimentality. This debate was never about nationalism. It was, and is, about democracy.

In our age of sound-bites and press releases, this has felt genuine and exciting. Many of us found our voice. The playful creative expression (National Theatre of Scotland’s Five Minute Yes/ No/ Don’t Know plays, All Back to Bowies), the cross disciplinary explorations (Imagination Festival) and, most important of all, the gentle face to face conversations at bus stops, office water coolers and kitchen tables…. all references lost on the new Indy media experts fresh off the train from Kings Cross.

'Let's Adore and Endure Each Other' (Old Street, East London)

Enduring Love? (Old Street, East London)

Mainstream media has woken up and started to take an interest in our Referendum. I don’t recognise the “divided nation” reported by the BBC or what The Observer journalist Alexander Linklater described as the “[atmosphere] tense, nervous and unimaginative. For two years, the debate was dismissed as a northern joke, a distraction, a playful game of Scottish tribalism. And now that the polls have confirmed a too close to call result, we’ve been dealt a one week catch-up with frenzied hyperbole, day trips, photocalls and a possible courtroom wrangle if the results appear inconclusive. Rather, we could have had two thoughtful years of reconsidering UK-wide democracy. So very, very sad. Panicky, partisan politics is not the context in which to affirm the best constitutional structures to promote and protect our public service delivery and exercise of human rights.

You’re so vain, you probably think this vote is about you

So England is feeling bruised. It thinks the Yes campaign is an anti-English protest vote in which it doesn’t get a say. This fundamentally misunderstands the outward-looking, letting-go potential of a new Scotland freed from its underdog, victim-hood baggage. And I say this as a card-carrying Eastenders addict who lived in Brixton as a young child. To pit English against Scottish is crass and outdated. Scotland is the ultimate ‘mongrel nation’ and, given the full legislative powers to do so, would welcome a more mature relationship with its island neighbours and an immigration policy that protects the human dignity of the new arrivals that want to contribute to working and living in Scotland. Well, let England shake. Perhaps it is time for a shake-up of a system that election after election conserves the narrow interests of a crowded, priced-out southeast at the expense of redistributing wealth and opportunity.

Shock and awe

Many of us had already voted by postal ballot when the new devo-max offerings appeared as if by magic at the start of the week. I sense that many Labour Party politicians are uncomfortable, embarrassed even, to find themselves on the same campaign side as Nigel Farage, George Galloway and orange order marches. I cannot understand why yesterday’s Labour men share a platform with today’s Condem masters of ‘shock and awe’ campaigning (their words).The Scottish National Party used to be known as the ‘tartan Torys’ by those leaning to the left, or in our house, ‘The Silly Nose Pickers Party’. Now, gone is Labour of love.

Choosing to make Scotland your home, wherever you have traveled from or are heading to, entitles you to a say in this national debate. Yes/ No, win/ loose, the bigger prize is about democracy. The battle for participatory democracy and empowered civil society has already been won. A 97% voter registration and the predicated record-breaking voter turnout will prove this. And then we can get on with other things.

Fat Boab the pigeon got stuck in a chimney


This rugged, wild, mischievous archipelago in the North Sea has engaged in a radical image re-branding in the past eighteen months. Some may say not radical enough.

From what I saw, last night’s STV #thedebate was not a flattering self-portrait for Scotland. It was not representative of the type of debate I want to see about Scotland’s future. The format was tired – two middle-aged men in suits shouting put downs across a middle-aged, male interlocutor in a suit. Presented with the opportunity to inspire a combined online and television audience of 2 million there was a spectacular lack of vision from both sides. These are two men with more in common than they might care to admit – two canny economists from North East Scotland wanting to be remembered for the pursuit of social justice but weighted down by the baggage of campaign one man up-manship- both committed to an entrenched party politics that prevents them from seeking common ground or being gracious enough to accept an unknown. This is old politics that keep us in a perpetual, political purgatory.

I say the debate was disappointing ‘from what I saw’ because at the start of the live, televised debate I was busy assisting my local postman dislodge a decomposing bird’s nest complete with bloated dead bird from inside an Auld Reekie fireplace. This bizarre Hitchcockian episode involving my Edinburgh Festival tenant Brittany from New York, a Sikh chimney sweep called John (born and bred in Leith), and friendly postie Craig, demonstrated how the everyday and the local has a habit of upstaging geopolitics and grandstanding. In the words of Craig “it’s just about having the good grace to help one another out”.

But for me watching on catch up, #thedebate between Darling and Salmond was uncharacteristic of the peoples’ debate so far. Missing was some honesty, humility and even a healthy dose of Scottish humour. Surely we should be able to have a grown-up debate about collective national identity and still not take our personal selves too seriously.

Perhaps it is to be expected in lieu of a binary vote where voters are polarised into yes and no camps. But a new type of politics is emerging to ‘un-stuck’ the tired tv debate format.

Such as the debate that brought me and other office workers out on a miserable, dreicht night last November to join a long, grey queue of wind-swept, stooped figures peering to see inside the misted up windows of Leith Town Hall’s public meeting. Committed Yes voters were asked to give up their seats to make space for the undecided wanting to hear from Nicola Sturgeon (Deputy First Minister), Aamar Anwar (human rights lawyer), Margo MacDonald (independent MSP) and Chas Booth (local Green Party councillor). I took my seat. In the months that followed, Margo MacDonald lost her fight against Parkinson’s disease but others joined her rallying call for Scottish independence.

On my walk home that night last November, the Port O’Leith regulars were belting out Dougie McLean’s anthemic ‘O Caledonia, let me tell you that I love you and think about you all the time’ in the rain and even the most hardened of cynics couldn’t have helped raise an umbrella to that.

Port O'Leith, Constitution Street

Port O’Leith, Constitution Street

Tuesday night’s #thedebate between political heavyweights and campaign leaders was uncharacteristic of the National Collective ceilidh sessions where slam poetry, gentle song and personal ‘journeys to yes’ have been shared over drams and tweets with new friends. Or The National Theatre of Scotland’s ‘Yes, No, Don’t Know’ 5 minute plays staged over 24 hours one day in July and curated by playwrights David Greig and David MacLennan. Rather than political polemic, we were treated to highly original and inquisitive sketches by mostly amateur writers, set in living rooms, pubs and on park benches.

#the debate on TV didn’t complement the kitchen table family meals where tribal Scottish Labour Party loyalties have been diluted and made fluid with an ever-infusing plurality of viewpoints across the generations and political spectrums. Unusual alliances have formed between grandmother and sister’s boyfriend, or between cousin working in East Africa and cousin working in East Glasgow. In the age of social media and sound bites, we are all arm chair cultural critics and have swapped acclaimed novels and albums across dinner plates- such as James Robertson’s And the Land Lay Still or Kenny Anderson’s From Scotland With Love– each certain that a particular work supports our own Yes/ No standpoint. And indeed we we are all characters in a new national narrative. About which, the best stories and music have yet to be written.

Whether we are Yes, No or Don’t Know, most of us want the same things. We want an outward-looking Scotland where ambition, hope and stability flourish and where we see an end to child poverty, chronic ill health and unemployment. The disagreement is about the best form of elected government to make that aspiration a reality.

A constant criticism from one side to the other is about a lack of factual detail in their contrasting plans for an independent or better together Scotland. Yet the future is always uncertain because it is the future. Of course we should be informed in our decision-making by researched evidence and financial projections but we then have to accept that there is a collective responsibility upon all of us to transfer our hopes, and even faith, for the future into mindful action in the new political and social contexts in which we will find ourselves. Doing so requires a tolerance of difference, empathy for one another, and the good grace to help one another out.